Murder On Gramercy Park

6

POTIER LOOKED THUNDERSTRUCK, AND WHEN HE saw that Malloy and Sarah had overheard, he blanched. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Fitzgerald,” he stammered. “Please allow me to make an appointment to speak with you privately about this matter.”

“What could that hurt?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked her husband pleadingly. “And you can’t throw Mrs. Blackwell out onto the street! She just had a new baby.”

“I’m sure her father will take them both in,” Fitzgerald said coldly.

“Then at least let me meet with you to make the arrangements,” Potter pleaded, glancing nervously at Sarah and Malloy, who were waiting patiently instead of scurrying away, as most people would have done to save themselves the embarrassment of overhearing such an unpleasant conversation.

“Fine. Monday morning at nine at my place of business,” Fitzgerald said, reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out his card.

Potter took it gingerly and quickly tucked it away. “I’m sure we can make arrangements that will suit everyone concerned,” he said with forced heartiness.

Fitzgerald grunted noncommittally and turned away, but to Sarah’s surprise, he entered the dining room, followed by his wife. The man was going to evict a newborn babe and his mother, but he didn’t think twice about enjoying their hospitality. She glanced at Malloy, who apparently shared her thoughts.

“Who is that fellow?” he asked Potter.

“Clarence Fitzgerald,” Potter said, after pulling the man’s card out and examining it. “His wife was a patient of Dr. Blackwell’s. He helped her tremendously. Sciatica, if I recall correctly.”

“And she was so grateful she let Blackwell live in this house rent-free?” Malloy asked with a frown.

“I’m sure I know nothing of any such arrangement. Edmund did not confide in me to that extent.”

“The Fitzgeralds are very generous,” Sarah noted. “The rent for a house like this would be considerable.”

“Oh, no, there was a scandal here, I understand. The Fitzgeralds owned it, but they were having trouble finding a tenant. Edmund said he cared nothing for such things, and he would take the house. He felt Letitia deserved a residence that matched her station in life, and of course he didn’t tell her about the scandal.”

“I guess it also helped that he was getting it for free,” Sarah said.

“If that is indeed the case,” Potter replied stiffly. “I believe Mr. Fitzgerald may be exaggerating his generosity. I haven’t had time to put Edmund’s affairs in order, but when I do, I’m sure I’ll discover the facts of it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must see to the comfort of our guests.”

Potter entered the dining room and insinuated himself into the nearest group, rudely interrupting their conversation, while Sarah and Malloy stood watching in amazement.

“What do you think?” Sarah asked Malloy.

He shrugged one of his beefy shoulders. “I think Mrs. Fitzgerald was way too grateful if she gave Blackwell this house to live in.”

“That depends on what services he performed for her,” Sarah said with a smug smile, and was gratified to see Malloy’s jaw drop in surprise. She loved to shock him. “Why don’t you take care of Calvin? I think I’ll go make Mrs. Fitzgerald’s acquaintance and see what I can learn.”

Without waiting for Malloy’s reply, she moved into the room, carefully stepping around the small groups that had formed for conversational purposes and looking for the Fitzgeralds. To her alarm, she found her quarry engaged in conversation with Calvin Brown!

Or at least Mrs. Fitzgerald was. Her husband was merely standing by, glaring in disapproval. Sarah slowly made her way through the crush of the crowd to the comer where they were standing.

“I knew you must be some relation to Dr. Blackwell,” Mrs. Fitzgerald was saying. “The resemblance is striking. How long have you been in the city?”

“A week or so,” Calvin mumbled, plainly awed by people of their social status and unsure whether to answer their questions or not.

“You must have been impressed to find your father living in such a grand house,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said. “Which room have you been staying in?”

“I… I ain’t been staying here,” he said, looking more and more uncomfortable.

Sarah excused herself and elbowed her way around the last person separating her from them.

“You weren’t staying with your father? Where on earth have you been staying, then?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked, a little shocked.

“A lodging house on Essex Street,” he said.

“And Edmund allowed that?” Mrs. Fitzgerald couldn’t believe such a thing.

At last Sarah was close enough to intervene. “Calvin, there you are,” she said with a smile.

The look he gave her showed desperation. She offered him hope.

“I believe Mr. Malloy was looking for you,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the dining-room door.

“Thank you, ma’ am,” he said, and made his escape with unseemly haste.

“Hello,” Sarah said to Mrs. Fitzgerald when he was safely away. “It was a lovely service, wasn’t it?”

Mrs. Fitzgerald looked surprised and a little annoyed that Sarah had sent the boy away, but she was too well-bred to be rude. “Oh, yes. I do wish they’d had a minister, though. It doesn’t seem like a funeral without a minister.” Sarah noticed that her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot and her nose was red on the tip, as if she’d cried quite a bit today.

“I know,” Sarah replied. “I wondered at that myself. Perhaps Dr. Blackwell didn’t hold with organized religion.”

As she’d hoped, Mr. Fitzgerald finally started drifting away, bored by what promised to be nothing more than female chitchat and looking for something more interesting to amuse himself.

“Oh, Dr. Blackwell was a deeply spiritual man, I know,” Mrs. Fitzgerald assured Sarah, apparently not caring where her husband went.

“I’m sure he was,” Sarah replied. “Were you one of his patients?”

“Yes, although he didn’t like to call us that. He preferred to call us clients. You see, he treated more than aches and pains. He wasn’t like an ordinary physician at all. Didn’t you know the doctor?” she asked, suddenly growing suspicious.

“Not very well,” Sarah said, stretching the truth a bit. “I’m a friend of Mrs. Blackwell’s, and I felt it was my duty to attend the service, since she couldn’t.”

“I see,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said, suddenly cold. Sarah wondered if it was the mention of Mrs. Blackwell or the fact that she, Sarah, didn’t know the doctor that the woman had found offensive. The first was the far more intriguing possibility, but Sarah didn’t want to waste precious time finding out. She decided to win Mrs. Fitzgerald back immediately.

“My name is Sarah Brandt. My father is Felix Decker,” she said, knowing both that it would gain her instant respect with Mrs. Fitzgerald and how annoyed her father would be to have his name used to gather clues in a murder investigation. Fortunately, he would most likely never learn of it.

The Decker name had the desired effect on Mrs. Fitzgerald. The Deckers were one of the oldest and wealthiest families in the city. Mrs. Fitzgerald need not know that Sarah had long ago turned her back on their way of life to become a common midwife.

“I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Brandt,” the woman said, so obviously impressed at meeting her that Sarah was almost ashamed. Almost. “I’m Martha Fitzgerald. That’s my husband, Clarence,” she added, gesturing vaguely to where Clarence had formerly stood.

“Could you tell me more about Dr. Blackwell’s form of treatment and how it worked? I’m fascinated by what I’ve heard, but I can hardly credit the successes that are attributed to him.”

“You may believe whatever you have heard, Mrs. Brandt. Dr. Blackwell could perform veritable miracles. Surely you know what he was able to do for his own wife.”

“Yes, Letitia shared with me how he cured her, but I can’t help believing that was some sort of fluke. Perhaps she was ready to get well and would have recovered without any treatment at all.”

“I’m sure I can’t speak for Mrs. Blackwell’s case,” she said with just a hint of disapproval, “but I know about my own. I had suffered for many years and was growing worse. I had such pain I could sometimes hardly move from my bed. Most days I couldn’t walk more than a few steps at a time. Some of the physicians who had treated me had the nerve to hint that my suffering was imaginary! Can you believe it?”

“Unfortunately I can,” Sarah said, knowing that many people’s pain and suffering were brought on by their own determination to be miserable. She didn’t dare suggest that she also believed this to be true of her companion, however, not if she wanted to hear what Mrs. Fitzgerald had to say.

“I think I would know the difference between real pain and imaginary pain, don’t you?” she asked indignantly.

“Absolutely,” Sarah agreed, less than truthfully.

“In any case, Dr. Blackwell took my case very seriously. He spent a long time discussing it with me, determining when the pain had started and exactly when and how often it occurred. None of the other doctors had cared to even ask such questions!”

Sarah was beginning to understand some of Blackwell’s appeal. He took time to listen to his patients. Or rather, his clients. And, most likely, to humor them as well. This must have been a form of therapy in and of itself. Remembering Dr. Blackwell’s tender care was bringing fresh tears to Mrs. Fitzgerald’s eyes.

“He sounds like a wonderful man,” Sarah tried.

“Oh, he was!” Mrs. Fitzgerald said. “And so gentle…” She quickly pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her cheeks.

“I’m sure he would be touched by your grief,” Sarah went on. “You must have been very grateful to him. I couldn’t help overhearing your husband say that he owns this house and allowed Dr. Blackwell to live here rent-free.”

“Well, actually,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper and glancing around to see if anyone was listening, “I own the house. My father willed it to me. We had no need of it, of course, and it wasn’t grand enough for Clarence, in any case, so I let it out. It would provide a nice income for me, but I really don’t need the money, so when I learned that Dr. Blackwell was in need of a home…”

She let Sarah guess the rest. It wasn’t difficult. Her only real question was why Mr. Fitzgerald had allowed it. Perhaps he hadn’t known until Blackwell died. “That was extremely generous of you. Dr. Blackwell must have been remarkably talented. Could you explain to me exactly what he did in his treatments that was different from other physicians? I can’t seem to understand it.”

“Oh, my, I can’t understand it either. In fact, I hardly remember most of it myself. The doctor speaks to you until you drift into a sort of sleep. Then he does things that feel absolutely wonderful, and when you come back to yourself, you feel like a new person. The pain is gone, and you can forget you ever had it!”

“Oh,” was all Sarah could think to say. Mrs. Fitzgerald was hardly enlightening, but Sarah had learned something valuable just the same: the true secret to Blackwell’s success! She couldn’t let on how excited she was without alarming Mrs. Fitzgerald, though. She had to change the subject. “Would your husband really put poor Letitia and the baby out at the end of the month?”

Mrs. Fitzgerald blinked in surprise at the abruptness of the topic change, and then her expression hardened. She didn’t like discussing Letitia. “Well, we’d heard nothing about a baby, of course,” she said, not quite answering the question. “Dear heavens, when did she have it?”

“The morning after Dr. Blackwell was killed.”

“I see. The shock must have brought it on, I suppose. I know I was prostrate myself when I heard the news. And then to learn today that Dr. Blackwell had not one but two sons! I had no idea he had been married before, either.” This fact did not please her at all. “There must be some unpleasantness between them or else why wasn’t the older boy staying here with his father?”

She was obviously hoping that Sarah would give her some answers, but she had no intention of filling Mrs. Fitzgerald in on the doctor’s scandalous past.

“I’m sure Dr. Blackwell would have confided in you if he’d felt the need,” Sarah said tactfully.

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said, considering this, and her eyes filled with tears again. “He was such a dear, dear man. However shall I go on without him?”

That seemed an odd thing to say about one’s physician, no matter what wonders of healing he might have worked, but Sarah wasn’t going to question her about it. Besides, she still hadn’t answered the question about throwing Letitia and the baby out of the house. “Did you say you hadn’t heard that Dr. Blackwell’s son had been born?”

“Not only that, I hadn’t known he was even expected! Dr. Blackwell hadn’t mentioned it to me, and we were very close. He always said I was one of his favorite clients.”

Sarah thought that an odd statement, but she let it pass.

“Of course,” Mrs. Fitzgerald continued, “we knew she’d stopped appearing at his lectures, but no one thought anything of it. It was obvious she was desperately afraid of speaking before a crowd, so I’m sure we all assumed that was why. She certainly was never very effective. If you ask me, Mr. Symington does much better.”

This woman had no sympathy at all for poor Letitia, and her spite sounded remarkably like jealousy to Sarah. “I heard someone say that the speech he gave this morning is the same one he uses at the lectures,” Sarah said.

“Hmm, I suppose it was very similar,” Mrs. Fitzgerald allowed, “but it certainly applied, didn’t it? I mean, all the things he said about Edmund were true, regardless of when or where he said them.”

Sarah hadn’t missed the fact that Mrs. Fitzgerald had called Blackwell by his given name, an obviously unintentional slip. No matron of her position would call her physician by his given name unless she’d known him from childhood, and even then she probably wouldn’t do so to a stranger. “How long were you under Dr. Blackwell’s care?” she asked.

“Almost a year, I believe.” She sighed. “I suppose all of the good he did will be undone now, with no one to carry on his work.”

“I believe his assistant, Mr. Potter, was trained in the techniques Dr. Blackwell used,” Sarah said.

“Pshaw, who could trust a man like that with their health?” Mrs. Fitzgerald scoffed. “He isn’t even a physician. And those eyes… I just don’t trust him. How could he possibly duplicate Dr. Blackwell’s successes?”

Or Dr. Blackwell’s charm, Sarah thought. The man must have been a wonder. She was almost sorry she’d never met him in person. And if homely little Amos Potter thought he could take over where Blackwell had left off, he was going to have a rude shock.

“Martha,” someone said sharply right behind Sarah, making her start.

She turned to see Clarence Fitzgerald frowning down at his wife. “We should go now,” he said.

“Yes, dear,” she responded absently. “I’m afraid I must leave,” she said unnecessarily to Sarah. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Brandt.”

“Thank you,” Sarah said, unable to return the compliment. “I hope all goes well for you.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald gave her a sad smile that said she couldn’t imagine that this was even possible.

As soon as the Fitzgeralds had left, Sarah looked around for Calvin Brown. To her relief, he seemed to have gone, so she started looking for someone else who seemed to have been unusually affected by Dr. Blackwell’s death.

WHEN THE LAST of the guests had left, Frank caught Sarah Brandt when she would have gone back upstairs to check on her patient.

“What did you find out?” he demanded, stopping her as she was about to start up the stairs.

“It’s a good thing for you that I’m not sensitive, Malloy. I might take offense at your abruptness,” she told him.

“I’m not being abrupt. I just asked you a question.”

She sighed, as if she were being put upon, when Malloy knew perfectly well that if she had any information at all, she’d be dying to tell him. “Mrs. Fitzgerald is the one who actually owns this house, and her husband may not have known she was letting Blackwell live here rent-free. She also didn’t know Mrs. Blackwell was expecting a child. I think Blackwell may have hidden that from his clients.”

“Clients?” Frank echoed.

“He preferred to call them clients instead of patients.”

“To each his own,” Frank muttered. “And it isn’t strange that he didn’t tell his clients about his wife’s condition. It’s none of their business.”

“True, but news like that gets out just the same. Mrs. Fitzgerald was actually shocked that he hadn’t confided in her. She even seemed a bit jealous, too. She claims she was one of his favorite clients.”

“Favorite? What does that mean?”

“You’ll have to ask Mrs. Fitzgerald,” she said. “I wouldn’t even want to guess. She was also shocked to find out Calvin was Blackwell’s son.”

“How did she find that out?” Malloy asked in annoyance.

“He told her. Oh, she asked him who he was, I suppose, and he’s too naive to lie,” she added when Malloy would have expressed his exasperation. “By the time I got there, she knew his life story, or just about. I hope you got him out of here before he talked to anyone else.”

“He was glad to leave. I never should’ve let him come in the first place, but Blackwell was his father, and he had a right to be here, I guess.”

“It was still awkward, and hearing Symington talk about Letitia was very difficult for him, I’m sure. I hope he’ll be all right.”

“He’ll be fine,” Malloy said, dismissing her concerns. “Did you learn anything else that might be useful?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. It seems Blackwell used mesmerism on his clients.”

“Mesmerism?”

“Yes, it’s a technique where a practitioner puts someone into a state resembling sleep and then makes suggestions to them that they will still believe when they wake up.”

“Are you telling me he was some kind of a magician?”

“No, mesmerism isn’t magic, although it’s sometimes used as a parlor trick. It’s a valid technique for helping people overcome illness that is all in their minds, and many times illness is just in people’s minds.”

“Could he have mesmerized Mrs. Fitzgerald into giving him this house to live in?” That was the first theory that made the least bit of sense to him so far.

“No, but I do think he used his skill to make his patients relax and to convince them they felt better. His treatments no doubt helped relieve physical discomforts, but mental discomforts can be just as bad. Anyone who can figure out how to make people feel better mentally will be a guaranteed success.”

Frank thought that was probably true. He wasn’t going to tell Sarah Brandt that, however. She already had too high an opinion of her powers of observation. “So are the Fitzgeralds going to throw Mrs. Blackwell and her baby out into the street?”

She glanced around to make sure no servants were lingering near and lowered her voice. “I don’t think Mrs. Fitzgerald has much use for the good doctor’s wife. If I were of a suspicious nature, I’d say she was even a little bit jealous of Mrs. Blackwell. She was certainly overly fond of the doctor, although it’s not uncommon for women to fall in love with physicians and ministers and other people who are kind or helpful to them.”

“Nobody falls in love with policemen,” Frank said sourly.

“I said kind and helpful, Malloy,” she reminded him with one of her grins. “I’ve got to go check on Mrs. Blackwell, but then I’m going home. You can walk a ways with me and discuss the case if you’ve a mind to. I found out some other interesting tidbits of gossip this morning.”

She knew perfectly well he would wait for her, Frank thought as he watched her mounting the stairs. How could he turn down an offer like that? Especially since she knew he lacked the necessary social position to mingle with the funeral guests to find out any gossip on his own.

He’d tried wandering from group to group, but they’d very neatly cut him dead each time, falling silent and staring at him until he moved on. He supposed they knew he was a policeman. People always did, even though he didn’t wear a uniform or any other outward sign of his profession. Being who he was could be an advantage when dealing with certain elements of society, the ones who could be frightened or intimidated. It was a disadvantage when dealing with the privileged few, however. They knew he had no power over them and looked upon the police mostly as a nuisance.

Taking Potter up on his offer of a reward had probably been a mistake. Now he felt obligated to solve the crime, and not just by pinning it on an innocent boy, no matter how happy that would make Potter. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the proper social credentials to find out what he really needed to know to solve the case.

But Sarah Brandt did.

The knowledge galled him, and he knew he shouldn’t allow her to be involved, no matter how helpful she might be. He didn’t need to solve the case that badly. Or at all, if the truth were known. Murders went unsolved every day in the city, and no one really cared, except perhaps a few grieving family members. If it wasn’t for the reward, he certainly wouldn’t be working so hard on this case. He didn’t even need the reward that much-he had plenty of money put aside that he was saving to bribe his way to a promotion on the force-and he was starting to think that maybe Edmund Blackwell hadn’t been such a great loss to the world anyway. Right now the only thing keeping him involved was the possibility that if he gave it up, Potter might get some other detective to arrest poor Calvin Brown for the crime.

He supposed he was actually fortunate that Sarah Brandt wasn’t the kind of woman to care if he allowed her to do something or not, though. She’d help him with this case because she wanted to, no matter whether he approved or not. In fact, his disapproval would probably only encourage her, which saved him from having to humble himself and actually ask for her assistance.

“Are you still here?” Amos Potter inquired rudely from behind him.

Frank turned around to see the little man coming down the hallway from the dining room. “So it would appear,” he replied mildly.

Potter sighed impatiently. “I can’t believe you allowed that boy in here today.”

“You mean Calvin?” Malloy asked just to annoy him.

“I mean the boy who killed Edmund,” Potter sniffed. “Really, Mr. Malloy, you’re wasting your time questioning Edmund’s friends and supporters. They had no reason to wish him ill. Quite the contrary, most of them will suffer from his death. And it’s especially troubling when you know exactly who killed Edmund and why.”

“I told you, Calvin didn’t kill his father.”

“So you say, but I’m afraid you’ve been taken in, Mr. Malloy. Calvin was always fiendishly clever, even as a child. Edmund told me stories about the boy… Well, I’m not one to gossip, but suffice it to say that the child has been an accomplished liar his entire life. I’m not surprised he was able to deceive you, but you must be careful not to let him escape without paying for his heinous crime.”

“If he’s guilty, he won’t escape,” Frank assured him.

Potter didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press the issue. “I’ll have Granger see you out,” he said.

“I’m waiting for Mrs. Brandt,” he replied, pointedly sitting down on the bench in the hallway.

Potter seemed a bit disturbed by this, but he said, “I’ll be in the study if you need anything. Good day.”

Potter closed the door behind him. Frank wondered how he felt about working in the room in which his good friend had been murdered. Maybe he enjoyed it. Potter seemed to have been in Blackwell’s shadow during the doctor’s life. Perhaps he felt he would come into his own now. If he could achieve the same results as Blackwell in healing people, he might gain respect and fame of his own. Unfortunately, Frank didn’t think he could. If half of Blackwell’s success had been due to his ability to charm people into thinking they were healed, Potter would never be able to duplicate his results.

SARAH DIDN’T KEEP Malloy waiting long. He didn’t even look impatient when she found him sitting in the hallway at the foot of the stairs.

“How is she?” he asked, rising to meet her.

“She’s sleeping.”

“Morphine?” he guessed.

“Yes.” She sighed, and let him take her medical bag to carry.

They didn’t wait for the butler to show them out.

The street was quiet except for the muffled sounds of the city all around it. She supposed the little park would help with that. Traffic would avoid the square, and the residents probably paid the beat patrolman to make sure no riffraff lingered in the area. In fact, Sarah could see him strolling along the street on the other side of the park.

Malloy saw him, too. “Patrick!” he shouted, getting the man’s attention. “I need to talk to you!” He turned to her. “If you don’t mind, I have to ask him some questions.”

“Of course not,” she said, more than eager to hear what Malloy would speak with him about.

The policeman hurried over to where they stood. He was middle-aged and overweight, his stomach bulging over his belt, and by the time he reached them, he was red-faced and out of breath. Unmistakably Irish, his large nose was blotched with broken veins from years of drinking. Malloy took him aside, not bothering to introduce him to Sarah, although he looked eager enough to make her acquaintance and kept glancing over at her curiously during his conversation with Malloy.

Sarah turned away, feigning interest in something in her purse while the two men talked, but she could hear every word.

“You were on duty the day this doctor fellow was killed, weren’t you?” Malloy asked.

“Yes, sir, I was. Remember, I was guarding the door when you come in, and I told you what happened.”

“Did you see anyone suspicious hanging around that day?”

“Suspicious? What do you mean by suspicious?”

“I mean anybody who didn’t belong in the area, or somebody hurrying away, like they were scared or something,” Malloy said. Sarah heard the edge of impatience in his voice, and turned her head so Officer Patrick wouldn’t see her smile.

“I don’t know if I can think of anything like that happening…”

“You’ll not get anything from me but a cuff to the head, Patrick, so give up trying to get me to bribe you. Did you see a boy knocking on Blackwell’s door that afternoon around two o’clock?”

“Well, now come to think of it, I did. Couldn’t rightly say it was two o’clock, or even the same day, but I recall seeing a boy on somebody’s porch in the last few days. Banging on the door, he was. Looked like he belonged on a farm somewhere. From his clothes, I mean. Tried to tell me he had an appointment, but I knew he was just some bummer looking for a handout, so I sent him on his way. That’s what I get paid to do, ain’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” Malloy agreed, not happy at all with this level of cooperation. “Did you see anybody else?”

“When?”

Even Sarah was starting to get annoyed with this Patrick. He might get his cuff on the head from her if he didn’t give Malloy some better answers.

“The day the doctor got killed,” Malloy said. He sounded as if he were gritting his teeth to keep from shouting.

“I thought he killed hisself,” Officer Patrick said. “I saw him, and that’s what it looked like to me. I was across the way there when I heard his wife screaming. She run out on the stoop and starts screaming like somebody’s trying to kill her, so I come running with my nightstick ready. Wasn’t nobody else in the house, though. I looked all around. Her servants come home about then, and they started carrying on, so I had someone telephone the station house. I waited outside until somebody come.”

“When you saw Blackwell, did you touch anything in that room?”

“Sweet Mary, no! There was blood everywhere, and any fool could see he was dead. I didn’t even go in the room except maybe a step or two. What makes you think somebody killed him?”

“There’s some money missing from the house,” Malloy told him. “If I find out you took it-”

“I didn’t take no money from the house! What do you think I am?” Patrick asked, affronted.

“I just better not find out that you did. Thanks for your help, Patrick,” Malloy said, disgust heavy in his voice. “You can go back about your duties now.”

“Glad to be of help,” he called after Malloy. Then, “Nice to see you, miss.”

Sarah bit her lip to keep from smiling when Malloy muttered something under his breath. Malloy touched her arm and they started walking away. Sarah resisted an impulse to wave good-bye to Officer Patrick.

“Was it Calvin you were asking him about?” she asked when they were safely out of earshot.

“Yeah, the boy said he’d come to keep an appointment with Blackwell at two o’clock that day. Potter told me Blackwell had made the arrangements. Calvin said he heard the clock strike, so he knew it was the right time.” Many people in the city couldn’t afford timepieces of their own and kept track of the hour from the many clock towers in the city.

“And he said the patrolman saw him?”

“He said the patrolman run him off when nobody answered the door to let him in. That’s how he can prove he never got into the house at all, so he couldn’t have killed his father.”

“Officer Patrick confirmed his story, then.”

Malloy gave her a pitying look. “Officer Patrick is a stupid drunk who can’t tell one day from another. He remembered seeing the boy, but he wasn’t even sure whose porch he was on, much less if it was the same day Blackwell was killed. I believe it happened like Calvin said, but Patrick isn’t going to be much help in proving it.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yeah, oh, dear.” Malloy sounded discouraged.

“You seem very interested in solving this case,” she tried. She knew police detectives were ridiculously underpaid and had to rely on bribes and rewards to make their living. Consequently, they couldn’t afford to waste a lot of time on cases that wouldn’t supplement their meager incomes.

“Potter offered a reward,” he told her reluctantly.

“Oh, my, I suppose that lets him out as a suspect, then,” she said with some disappointment. “I was rather hoping he was the killer.”

“He’s not one of my favorite people either, especially now that he’s dead set on proving that the boy did it.”

“It makes sense,” Sarah pointed out, playing devil’s advocate. “Blackwell had done a terrible thing to his family. The boy must have been very angry. Maybe he even hated his father.”

“Maybe,” Malloy allowed. “Potter said Blackwell told him the boy was an accomplished liar, too.”

“Really? He looked awfully innocent to me, and he seemed genuinely upset today at the funeral. Why would he have had to be a liar?”

“That’s an interesting question. I’ve seen lots of good liars in my time, but mostly they were raised on the streets, making a living any way they could, stealing and lying and cheating, sometimes even killing. But Calvin didn’t grow up on the street.”

“He would have had a difficult time of it, though,” Sarah pointed out.

“He said he went to work very young. His mother took in washing. It was a hard life, but I just don’t see him even stealing a loaf of bread, no matter how hungry he might’ve been.”

“But what’s this you were telling Officer Patrick about some missing money?” she asked. “Do you think Calvin stole money from his father?”

Plainly, he didn’t want to discuss this, but he also knew she wouldn’t give up until he told her. “According to Potter, Blackwell was going to give Calvin some money the day he was killed to buy the boy’s silence. Calvin was supposed to take the money and go back home to Virginia. The money hasn’t turned up, though.”

“And if Calvin had gotten it, that probably means he’s the killer,” she guessed, “but if he did kill his father and get the money, it also doesn’t seem likely he’d still be here in the city, does it?”

“That does seem reasonable,” Malloy said just to keep from admitting she was right. She knew he hated admitting she was right.

“But you don’t think Calvin is the killer, at least.”

“No, I don’t. He’s just too innocent.”

“I’m impressed, Malloy. You hardly ever see good in anyone.”

“There’s hardly ever any good to see,” he countered.

“With the people you deal with, that’s probably true.”

“With the people you deal with, too, if you’d admit it.”

He was right. Sarah didn’t like to think about it, but the father of the last baby she’d delivered had been murdered right in his own home. No one she’d met so far seemed completely innocent, either, except perhaps the baby himself.

“Did you find out anything else from the people at the funeral?” he asked.

“Just that all of Blackwell’s female patients-”

“Clients,” Malloy corrected her.

“Clients,” she dutifully repeated, “were extremely fond of him. Apparently, his reputation as a ladies’ man wasn’t exaggerated.”

“Do you think he actually seduced them?”

Sarah considered. “I believe there was some physical contact. Certainly, he had to touch his clients in order to perform his treatments, but there’s different kinds of touching, if you catch my meaning.”

“Wouldn’t the women have objected if he took liberties with them?” Malloy asked with a frown.

Malloy was, Sarah remembered, something of a prude when it came to such things. “Not if they believed it was part of the treatment, and not if it felt very pleasant. And of course if they were under hypnosis…”

Malloy made a face to express his distaste. “If they were in some sort of trance, he could’ve done anything he wanted. So you’re telling me that all the husbands of these women could’ve had a good reason to blow Blackwell’s brains out.”

“I’m telling you that Blackwell gave these women relief from their pain, and he may have even given them pleasure. Many women never experience physical pleasure from their marital relations, Malloy. Blackwell must have seemed like a miracle worker to them.”

Malloy was glancing around anxiously to make sure no one had overheard her. “Do you have to talk about things like that?” he asked.

“We’re talking about the case,” she reminded him. “I’m just trying to help you understand the kind of man Blackwell was, and who might have had a reason to kill him and why.”

“I guess you’re ruling out all his female patients, then,” Malloy said sarcastically.

“Unless one of them was the jealous type,” Sarah said with some amusement.

“Could one of them have been jealous of his wife?”

“Mrs. Fitzgerald apparently was, but if that was the motive, then Letitia would be dead instead of her husband. Although…”

“Although what?” he prodded when she hesitated.

“Mrs. Fitzgerald was not aware that Letitia was with child. If Blackwell led his patients to believe he had a marriage in name only…”

“That’s a little hard to believe,” Malloy said. “These women are married, too. Why would they expect him to be faithful to them?”

“You’re right. That’s pretty farfetched. On the other hand, if Letitia was jealous of them…”

“I haven’t met Mrs. Blackwell yet,” he reminded her, “but you said she doesn’t seem like the type.”

Sarah sighed. “I’m afraid she’s not.”

They walked a block in silence. Finally Sarah said, “Why don’t you just arrest Amos Potter? Neither of us likes him much.”

“I don’t like Maurice Symington, either. Why couldn’t he be the killer instead?” Malloy countered.

“I like that idea. Do you know that he spoke at Blackwell‘s lectures when Letitia couldn’t, and that the eulogy he gave today was the same speech he used for the lectures? He couldn’t even be bothered to write a true eulogy for his son-in-law. But what would his motive be to kill Blackwell?”

“What would Potter’s motive be?”

“Let’s see, if either of them was upset about Edmund’s bigamy, that would be a good reason to kill him. They’re both devoted to Letitia and would be eager to protect her,” Sarah said.

“Why should Potter care?”

“Because he’s in love with Letitia.”

“Then he wouldn’t have to kill Blackwell. All he’d have to do was wait until her life was ruined by the scandal and be her sole remaining support. Then he could have her all to himself,” Malloy pointed out.

“Only if she’d have him in return, and that doesn’t seem likely. No, her father is a much more logical choice if Blackwell was killed because of his bigamy. Symington would want to save his daughter from the scandal and get revenge on Blackwell, too. Blackwell’s death would ensure that the scandal never became public. He seems like the best suspect to me.”

“Only if he knew about the Brown family, though,” Malloy pointed out.

“You could ask him if he did,” Sarah said.

“Yeah, if I want to be out of a job tomorrow.”

He was right, of course. Having the audacity to question a man as powerful as Symington about whether he’d killed his son-in-law was a sure way to draw the wrong sort of attention to yourself if you were a police detective.

“Could Potter have told him?” Sarah asked. “Or even Calvin himself?”

“Calvin wouldn’t even know who Letitia’s father is, much less how to find him.”

Sarah sighed. This was getting them nowhere.

Then Malloy said, “Wait, you said Symington spoke at Blackwell’s lectures. Calvin told me he went to one of those lectures. Someone had sent his mother one of the advertising posters so he would know where to find his father. That’s what brought him to New York in the first place.”

“Who sent him the poster?” Sarah asked eagerly. “That person would be a likely suspect.”

“Calvin doesn’t know. It was sent anonymously. Anyway, when Calvin went to the lecture, he heard Symington speak. The boy was upset because Symington said Blackwell was married to his daughter.”

“So he did know who Symington was,” Sarah said in triumph. “Could he have gone to see him, too?”

Malloy smiled grimly. “I think I’ll pay young Calvin a visit and ask him that very thing.”